


The Darkest Dawn

by jokocraft



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Season 4, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 03:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12356742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jokocraft/pseuds/jokocraft
Summary: Keith has anxiety and doesn't like ultimatums. Lance helps him face what's to come, whatever that may be.





	The Darkest Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I wish this were longer with more of a plot, but I decided to leave it be. This was more of a writing exercise than an intent to write something with a beginning, middle, and end. BUT I definitely plan to write other things with Klance in the future, though. It's my OTP of OTPs, after all. 
> 
> Plz don't hesitate to leave a comment if u like it :)

As Keith slouched further down in his chair at the dining table, it dawned on him that he was in the midst of irony, a concept he never grasped well in middle school. But it was all starting to make sense now. 

Shiro sat at one end of the table, flanked by Pidge and Matt. Allura sat at the other, Hunk and Coran beside her. Both sides were doing their best to maintain an air of professionalism as their discussion continued to rally back and forth for yet another hour. 

Keith sat exactly halfway between both sides and made no effort to express anything other than how he really felt. With vacant eyes, he stared at the vacant chair across from him. Lotor might as well have been sitting in it, as silent as Keith, waiting for a verdict—but probably with a smile.

The urge to look over his shoulder started to creep up on Keith again, but he ignored it. Hunk had announced before they began that Lance had decided to attend to their guests for a while, but would try to join them later. Everyone knew it was code for not wanting to take a side, and no one seemed to expect Lance to show up at all, but Keith still held out hope. The tension in the room had long become unbearable, and no one knew how to dispel tension better than Lance. 

_It's because he can't stand the thought of a friend being actually mad at him,_ Pidge had muttered to Matt during a break, when she thought no one else was listening. She and the others had not been happy about Hunk’s announcement at all, let alone Hunk’s advice that they’d all be better off not forcing Lance into participating because he would know. 

_He’s being childish,_ Pidge had said in earnest. _And this situation requires us to be the absolute, polar opposite of that. He has a role to play! He can't avoid taking sides forever._

Keith knew Pidge wasn't wrong. Just like Keith, Lance had an ultimatum to face: He could support Allura, or he could support Shiro. He could support a temporary truce with Zarkon, or he could support an alliance with Lotor. Coran and Matt had tried to encourage compromise, but neither could get Allura or Shiro to budge even an inch.

Only Keith managed to get on the bad side of both parties at the table. All he had to do was say that he’d be insane to support any kind of alliance with Lotor whatsoever, then, follow up with saying that negotiating a truce with Zarkon was an equally terrible decision.

Keith let out a small sigh as Allura began restating an argument she'd already brought up twice, and before he realized what he was doing, Keith had looked over his shoulder again. Pidge’s dirty look and clipped comment were so immediate and rehearsed, Keith realized she’d been waiting for him to do it.

"I'm sorry, is this _boring_ to you? Feel free to leave if it is." She leaned forward and adjusted her glasses. "Just know that once we hash this out, you either agree to support the plan completely, or we drop you off at the nearest intergalactic hub. We can’t afford the ‘extra weight,’ as you might say." 

A tense silence passed over the table, and although most everyone looked uneasy in one way or another, no one refuted her. It took Keith longer than he would have liked to school his expression. The lingering spite in everyone’s eyes made him feel awful, but he reminded himself he did actually deserve it, especially in last few months. 

"Right," he said, as he nodded and stood awkwardly. "I’m not being very useful." Keith paused, looking up at no one in particular. Then he nodded again, and walked away from the table.

Relief and shame rushed through him when he heard the sliding doors shut, leaving him in silence. Keith could feel his heart beating hard in his chest. He was parched, too. The whole situation reminded him of sand, slipping through his fingers. His body felt like sand, too, a gust away from getting into someone's eye or helping suffocate whatever living thing was closest.

Keith began walking in a random direction, and after a few minutes, a dissociative sensation overcame him. He didn't feel like he was walking down the halls of home anymore. He felt like he was using the mental map of a stranger. The floor appeared foreign, somehow. The walls didn’t recognize him.

 _You have until our departure date,_ Kolivan had told him, solemn as ever. _If you are not here by then to leave with us, we must consider you a traitor to the cause. And if you refuse to hand it over now, we'll have no choice but to hunt you down for your blade._

If it were possible, Keith was fairly sure his heart was beating even faster by the time he reached the doors to his room. When they slid open, Keith took one step inside before turning right back around, his limbs stiff and vibrating. He tried clenching his fists and clearing his head, but Keith couldn’t get himself to go inside. The room felt too wrong, too unsettling. And inexplicably, he didn’t want to intrude. 

Shame drew his gaze to the floor, and it was there that he spotted a square note. Keith supposed it had fallen off the door, and when he picked it up, he realized it was a sticky note. Keith wondered where not-on-Earth someone had gotten their hands on sticky notes, of all things. It was blue, with a simple geometric design as a border. 

_Everyone wants to see_

_red bayard as a sword_

_Come to training room_

The last sentence was double underlined, and there was a scribble of a stickman holding a sword at the bottom.

Keith read the note over a few times, then a few times more for good measure, just so he knew for sure he wasn’t having some kind of sleep-deprived hallucination. He couldn’t say he liked the mention of "everyone," but it was obvious who the note was from, and so he started for the training room anyway.

*

Unlike the doors to the classrooms at the Garrison, the doors of the Castleship didn't allow for him to peek in, scope out the scene, and steel himself. But when the training room doors opened for him that evening, he found that bracing himself for "everyone" hadn’t been necessary.

Nearly all the lights had been shut off and there were dozens of people of many species scattered around, sleeping on large pads. In the far corner Keith spotted the back of Lance's head in a clustered group of others. He approached without making a sound, but Lance somehow knew exactly when to turn around and wave anyway. Two beats too late, Keith raised his hand halfway in response. 

The others in the group made a space for him next to Lance, and he sat down. Of the cluster, Keith only recognized Rolo and Nyma in the very back, fast asleep against each other. There were snacks and drinks in the center, and Keith only hesitated a moment before taking the cup of water offered to him. Maybe it was just how parched he was, but it tasted especially crisp. 

"Awesome timing," Lance said in a hushed voice. "I've just finished showing them everything I can do with this thing." He shoved the Red Bayard into Keith's chest, and they brushed hands as Keith took it. "Now it’s your turn, since you’re the only one who can get it to turn into a sword." He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Everyone _assumes_ a sword is cooler, but that’s just not true…" 

Keith stopped listening when he noticed that Lance seemed taller, even sitting. He tried to remember how long it had been, since they sat and talked like this, or since he was the one to hand the Red Bayard over to Lance. 

"Dude?"

Keith jerked, and without a thought, he wielded the Bayard, thrust it forward, and a sword it became. Everyone except Lance startled or jumped back, and all manner of eyes bulged from fear. After a moment, Keith swallowed and let the Bayard return to its usual form. 

"Sorry," he said, and avoided eye contact again in favor of appreciating how the handle of the Red Bayard was pleasantly familiar and comfortable in his hand. It didn’t feel wrong or unsettling at all. It looked exactly the same as before—not a single scratch that wasn't Keith's doing. No evidence that Lance had ever used it even once. Yet when Lance took the Bayard back, he appeared no less comfortable with it. He was smiling. Everyone was smiling. Keith blinked and wondered what he missed. 

"Now do the long gun again!" stage-whispered someone of a noseless, grey species Keith didn't recognize. Lance beamed, and with one fluid motion and a bright flash of light, he was peering into the scope of a sniper rifle. He positioned the gun against himself with easy confidence and perfect poise, and Keith silently agreed with all the others that it was a good look on him. 

He stayed silent as the others compared and contrasted the two weapons. Lance was smirking at them all, listing reason after reason he thought his weapons were better. It was strange to Keith, hearing him talk so quietly for so long. 

Keith had been listening for several minutes before he noticed that his heartbeat had finally slowed. It felt almost like a luxury, and Keith closed his eyes to take in the moment of peace as much as he could. 

It was ruined, though, when tears began pooling hot behind his eyelids. Keith's whole body tensed, and he instantly began to think of excuses to leave that didn't require opening his eyes.

"Alright, party's over," Lance said suddenly. "If you all don't mind, Keith and I have to go and discuss top secret Voltron stuff now. I do hope you enjoy your stay at Training Room Inn and Suites."

Keith rubbed his forehead in an effort to appear only tired, but his hand faltered when an arm curled around his shoulders. Lance stood, and Keith quickly followed, wasting no time turning away from the crowd—and Lance—to blink. As Lance steered him to the nearest set of doors, two fat tears rolled down Keith’s cheeks.

Even when they left the training room behind, Lance kept his arm around him. Even when they distanced themselves from the most far-reaching of hearing ranges, neither of them spoke. Only when Keith realized they were headed toward the Paladins’ quarters did he stop walking.

"I don’t…" Keith tried to think, tilting his face so his bangs shielded him. "I don't really feel like…I mean—" 

"Hey, I have an idea!" Lance interrupted, and he half-dragged Keith back the way they came before taking an abrupt turn down a corridor known for a room Keith had yet to visit.

"Why are we going this way?" Keith muttered.

"Because Alteans have a shockingly similar laundry system as humans, and my towels should have finished drying a few hours ago." 

Keith's brow scrunched, but he didn't comment. 

When they entered the unremarkable laundry room, dim lights flickered on automatically and the doors hissed shut more slowly than most. Lance pushed Keith toward a row of black, cube-ish machines, which sat just below a long window looking out into endless space. 

"Sit, sit, yup—this one," Lance said, jostling Keith until he agreed to climb on top of leftmost machine. And immediately Keith understood Lance’s eagerness: Just past what was visible through the window from the doorway, a magnificent nebula hung suspended, a million shades of purple, folding and twisting like massive paint strokes, shimmering in a pattern akin to infinitely slow waves. 

Keith heard a few beeps and looked over at Lance doing something to one of the machines across the room. As Lance started to lift his head, Keith adjusted his posture to casually block his face. For some reason, it was then that the hot tears decided to return. Keith tried to draw in a steady breath, but in his effort not to be heard, his body began to tremble, as if wanting to lurch away somewhere.

"It's so weird," Lance said, climbing onto the machine in front of Keith and mercifully facing the nebula instead of him. "This room seems to have the best views a lot. Like, suspiciously often. Maybe the room’s cursed, except in a good way." 

Keith stared at Lance staring at the Nebula. When he was sure his voice wasn't compromised, he asked, "You come in here a lot? Why?" 

Lance shrugged. "I've always done my own laundry here. Partly because it gives me something to do, but also because I learned a long time ago never to trust anyone with the things I wear and the sheets I sleep on." Lance huffed. "And my mom would kill me if she ever found out I let someone else to my laundry at any point in my existence." 

Lance chuckled to himself, and Keith grinned a little. He rested the side of his head against the window. There was no rumbling or shaking of the glass, like in a car or a plane or a Garrison jet. 

Instead, the window was as still as the glass of a picture frame: a clear, cold barrier through which he could look death in the face. And he had, so many times. He had, just days ago. 

Keith pressed his lips together and bent his head forward so the tears would fall into his lap. 

Lance turned and Keith's heart leapt into his throat, but Lance's eyes were closed as he leaned his back against the window. Keith internally slapped himself and took a couple deep breaths to get rid of any lingering redness on his face. 

The machine across the room beeped again, and Lance hopped down and walked over. He opened a latch and pulled out a large, blue bath towel. Keith recognized it right away. He remembered how Lance had begged Coran to buy it. The towel was more faded now than it had been, but Lance seemed to be as fond of it as ever. Keith didn't get how Lance could be fond of such mundane things. 

Keith finally felt like his face was presentable by the time Lance finally looked up at him, holding the blue towel out like a prize.

"Toasty!" Lance said, waggling his eyebrows. Keith rolled his eyes, smiling. Lance approached him in a few strides and dramatically jerked the towel high in the air, only to guide it in a slow decent over Keith's head. 

Heat enveloped him for a moment, before he pulled the fabric out of his face. Lance was already walking away again, pulling a second towel from the machine. It was small and white, and Keith recalled where he knew it from once Lance wrapped it around the back of his neck. 

Lance sighed and made a silly, blissful expression before climbing back onto the machine next to Keith, facing him this time. 

"Feels good, huh? Like a spa treatment for free." 

Keith started adjusting the blue towel like Lance had his, but Lance made an loud, exasperated sound and batted his hands away. "No, like a cape, Keith. It's a different—no, like a _cape—_ have you never seen someone wrapped in shock blanket on TV?" 

Keith glared until Lance was satisfied enough to leave him alone. He had to admit, though, that the towel's lingering warmth did feel good. Keith curled a little more into himself and hoped Lance wouldn't notice. 

But as Keith stared at the nebula, Lance’s grin faded.

"Is it that bad in there?" Lance asked, in that quiet tone that freaked Keith out. "The post-discussion, or whatever it’s supposed to be?" 

"I wasn't really listening. Maybe." 

"Did they kick you out?" 

"Kinda." 

Lance smirked. "Who?" 

"Pidge, I guess." Keith still wouldn’t meet Lance's eyes. "She didn’t really kick me out, but they all wanted me there about as much as I wanted to be there." 

"Because…" Lance prompted.

Keith just shrugged. "I won’t do what they want—I can’t. I can’t take a side." 

Something shifted in Keith's chest, and Keith willed away more tears. "I would take Shiro's side, but allying with Lotor will probably lead to unleashing all kinds of horrors into this reality. Taking Allura's side is just a death sentence, plain and simple." He gestured helplessly with his hand. "I can’t support either side without feeling like I’m supporting their demise or something." 

Keith's breathing became more ragged as tears welled too close to the surface. "I think the Blade—I think they have it right. Our time and energy is best spent finding—I mean hiding Lotor, then finding out his secrets and staying as far away from Zarkon as possible." He remembered to inhale. "However much he’s focused…focused on the hunt for Lotor, it means that much less focus…" Keith clenched his hands to hide how they couldn't stay still. "On everyone else." 

He fell silent and tried to focus on the heat against his back. But when Lance didn’t respond after a long moment, Keith realized what he said and cursed himself. "I know the Blade is against Voltron now, but…" His shoulders fell. "I know it’s an opinion no one wants to hear right now, but—"

"No, I agree."

Keith looked up at Lance and their eyes locked. Keith's mouth fell open slightly. 

"I agree with you," Lance said. 

A moment of something passed between them.

"It seems like the obvious solution to me," Lance continued, "but, the others…well, it doesn't matter how obvious a solution is if you’re blind in the first place." 

Keith’s eyes widened at Lance’s bluntness. "Blind?" 

"You know," Lance said, looking out the window. He fidgeted with the towel around his neck. "Blinded by hatred, or fear, or ego, etcetera, etcetera. Most of the time people just have blind spots here and there, but other times, usually the darkest times, those blind spots tend to expand until—well, you get the metaphor." When Lance looked back at Keith, his expression turned to shock. "Keith?" 

"What?" Keith turned, but there was nothing behind him. "W—" And then he blinked, and more tears rolled down his face. Keith let out a frustrated breath and tried to smear the wetness away. 

"Keith…" 

"I don't know," Keith snapped. He glared at the bottom edge of the window. "I don’t know. Everything you're saying makes sense, but, I still—" His breath hitched, and he tried again. "If I go with Kolivan, and support the Blade’s plan, I’ll be your _enemy_. Or just…or I’ll just never see you again…" 

Keith’s breath escaped him all at once, and he gave up. He bowed his head and pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. But he kept stringing words together, halting and uneven. 

"If I stay and side with someone here, a lot of people could die and I’d be useless to save anyone. _Useless_. And the blades would be hunting me down, too, and—but _at least_ —" Keith sniffed and tried to compose himself, "At least if I leave, there’s still a chance I could save _you_. You guys. All of you—" Keith huffed, hating how his face quickly became as warm as the towel had been. "I could save team Voltron. Maybe. The point is I could try—I _would_ try, even if it meant fighting Voltron in the process, and everyone hating me, being the villain, dying. Whatever. At least then…" Keith sighed. He let let the side of his head rest against the window again. "You guys wouldn't bedead, too." 

No more words came, and they soon were replace with tears. Keith let himself cry, as quietly as could manage. The racking in his body couldn't be helped, but it subsided when Lance put a hand on his shoulder. 

" _That’s_ the choice you’re trying to make?" Lance asked, as if to himself. 

A moment passed, then two. When Lance pulled Keith forward and held him close, Keith felt something in himself finally break.


End file.
